


It Doesn't Matter

by jaeger_fly



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaeger_fly/pseuds/jaeger_fly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck dies, but his ghost lingers in Herc's mind. At first, Chuck sticks to the drift but then slowly begins to haunt Herc's waking moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP. I have a few pieces written here and there and it's slow going. There's no real over arching plot, and I don't know where it's going. Right now it's just a series of drabbles I didn't know where to put; follow up drabbles will be posted in following chapters. Idk what this is either except awfulness. First time posting to ao3, forgive any errors.  
> Unbeta'd. 
> 
> Warning for lots and lots of swearing.

Herc Hansen stays in his new office - his Marshal’s office because he is the Marshal now isn’t he, yes, yes he is - unable to bring himself to spend time in the company of others though it’s likely that’s what he needs right now.

He can’t bring himself to care about anything that he might need. Nothing matters.

 _It doesn’t matter_.

* * *

“Sir, I brought you the spec reports on Gipsy 2.0.” Mako’s voice interrupts and he doesn’t look up.

“Set them on the edge, there.”

Paper flutters and he feels the ghost of a breeze hiss over his face and his fist clenches over his pen, eyes boring holds into the work he’s doing. Mako lingers and he hates her for it because he wants to be alone, all the time, just _leave him alone_ \--

“You’re dismissed, Ranger. Thank you.”

His tone stays professional.

Mako leaves.

_It doesn’t matter._

His son is dead. His _son_ is dead. His _son_ is _dead_ _his son is dead his SON is DEAD HIS SON IS DEAD_ \--

* * *

They’ve built a prototype jaeger, Gipsy 2.0 for testing, trial runs and Herc knows that he shouldn’t be one of the testers. Medical tried to argue with him, tell him _no_ , you can’t do that, you can’t go in, it’ll kill you, fry your brain, you can’t—

“I can.”

His answer had been final.

 _It doesn’t matter_.

Herc piloted Mark Is before; he’d been Drifting and fighting and pounding kaiju into dust since the glory days, when the jaegers had been ‘perfected’ and there were months between deployments and everyone felt invincible and no one thought that things would ever get to that terrifying precipice where humanity was on the verge of losing everything.

He has no goddamn business in the Drift, no business testing Gipsy 2.0. He knows that. By doing it, by continuing to do it, he’s slowly killing himself, going in again and again and again, but there’s not a lot of choice in the matter. At least, not for him.

What else does he have left besides an old, creaking body and a bulldog that makes him cry every time he looks at it?

Nothing.

 _It doesn’t matter_.

* * *

They let him test the jaeger and Herc suits up alone, refusing to allow anyone else access to his brain and the medical team knows that this is so unhealthy in more ways than just Herc’s brain being fried but no one has the heart to tell him no, because they all know what he wants, what he’s doing.

It’s a hard drift, and getting sucked into a new jaeger, one without the residue leftover by him and Chuck is jarring and he hates it, he hates Gipsy 2.0 and he can practically feel the jaeger recoil from him, from the hatred that radiates straight from his bones and floods into the drift.

 _screams, screams everywhere, Sydney, why Sydney, not again, not AGAIN, you_ fucker _, I’ll die first—_

_Chuck’s screaming in his head, shouting at the kaiju, flinging profanity like it was going out of style and even mid-fight Herc is laughing because that’s Chuck, is’ always been Chuck, it’s how he functions, how he copes, he swears and hits and swaggers—_

_It’s cold, winter is cold and brutal and Chuck’s complaining because Angela wont let him outside to play and Herc brings hot chocolate and it’s okay, it’s okay—_

_They’re fighting, Angela’s screaming at him because he’s never home, he’s always working, she’s scared, Chuck is scared and why can’t you JUST COME HOME, HERCULES—_

He slams into the Drift with a gasp and he shakes in the harness and Tendo’s voice comes over, worried, because Herc’s vitals are all over the place but Herc doesn’t’ care.

He’s in the Drift. He’s searching, searching, hunting, looking for his son, his _son_ \--

“Dad?”

Chuck looks startled to be standing here and Herc almost fucking recoils because Chuck’s burned, marred beyond recognition, radiation and fire and shrapnel had torn at him, left him barely human but if Herc squints, if he looks hard enough—

Chuck’s form shimmers and he’s whole again and frowning, scowling, because what the fuck, Dad—

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Drifting.”

“No shit.”

“Don’t get smart with me, boy.” Herc’s heart shatters a little more because it’s an argument they’ve had a thousand, a million times and to have it again leaves him weak and weary and so, so relieved.

Chuck stands there looking at him, helmet tucked under his arm, drive suit now intact, face unmarred.

“ _Fuck_.” Herc says, hand reaching out to touch the suit, to press a palm to Chuck’s shoulder, to pull him in to a hug—

Chuck knocks his arm away.

“You sent me down there to die,” he says flatly, eyes shifting away from his father, looking elsewhere, anywhere but the haggard face that stares desperately back at him. “I died. Let me go.”

“Chuck—“

“Let _go_ ,” Chuck repeats, grip tightening on his helmet, face flushing an ugly red. He’s pissed, he’s pissed Herc wasn’t there, they were always supposed to do shit together, _together_ , if they were gonna die it was gonna be _together_.

“Get out of here! Go!”

But before Herc can respond, Chuck’s memories – his _memories_ , how is this happening it doesn’t work like this he shouldn’t be getting this Jesus it _is_ a ghost he’s fucking lingering in the goddamn drift like a fucking banshee – flood Herc and he experiences the last five minutes of Chuck’s life.

_He’s spitting blood and bile on the floor, glaring over at Stacker as if this is somehow his fault, even though he knows it’s not. It’s shortlived, because they’ve got a job to do and Stacker’s calm demeanor in his mind reminds him that there’s one last thing they can do, there’s a way to help, a way to stop it—_

_Fear seizes him, it’s choking and desperate and Chuck doesn’t want to die, please don’t let me die, I’m not ready—_

_“We can clear a path,” Stacker’s saying, “For the lady.”_

_Chuck’s nodding mutely, lips twisting up into a half smirk because he knows this is the end now, it’s over, it’s been over for him since he was a kid, since his mother died, since everything went to shit forever._

_“Like my dad always said,” Chuck says proudly, arrogantly, and in this moment he loves his father, he’s proud of his father, he misses his father, “if you have the shot, you take it.”_

_They stare at one another, Chuck’s eyes red-rimmed, Stacker’s cold and Chuck hears something in Japanese right as Marshal and Ranger hit the trigger switch together and fuck it hurts it hurts fuck dad make it stop dad dad mum DADDY—_

Herc’s ejected from the drift and he lands hard on hands and knees, and he weeps.

No one bothers him for an hour.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herc refuses to stop initiating solo drifts, Chuck gets a little fed up. Sorry this is so short and weirdly choppy, my creativity comes in bursts then dries up. Hopefully they're worth reading anyway :)

“Like torturing yourself, yeah?” Chuck’s tone is conversational as they walk along the streets of Hong Kong. He’s more relaxed today, walking with his usual swagger, helmet dangling by his side instead of clutched in his arms.

“Suppose I do,” Herc says with a sort of self-deprecating shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

Chuck rolls his eyes and reaches to swipe a treat as they pass booth upon booth filled with food, candy, strange delicacies, and more.

“Don’t steal,” Herc snaps, swiping at it, but Chuck holds it out of reach and leans away, shoving at his father to get away from him.

“It’s a memory, _dad_ ,” he drawls, gnawing on the piece of meat. “They don’t fuckin’ know what’s going on.”

“Memory or not, you don’t _steal_ ,” Herc growls, reaching over and snatching it out of Chuck’s hand.

“Hey--!” The action earns Herc a shove but in the end it’s fruitless, even here, Herc is bigger and stronger than his son.

His _son_.

_That’s my son you’ve got there, Stacker. My SON._

_“-shot, you take it—“_

_\--silence, silence in the drift, there is nothingness, only blackness, only hurt and pain and anguish and quiet loneliness that never goes away_

Herc wakes up in his bed, sweating, shivering, and clutching at his dogtags.

* * *

_\--if you have the shot--_

 

_Angela smiles and holds their baby boy and Herc's proud, so so proud--_

“Hey.”

_It’s a sunny day, sunny and swelteringly_ hot _in the way that only the beaches of Australia can be hot and he’s sitting there and watching them play, they’re playing in the water and there’s a sandcastle next to him and the beer is cold and the sun is HOT and it’s burning him--_

“Hey, you.”

_Sydney is burning, it’s burning and I can’t get there, can’t move fast enough, not good enough what do I do what do I do get Chuck I have to get Chuck but Angela, I don’t know what to do God help me **I don’t know what to do**_ \--

“Old man!”

Herc snaps into the Drift and it’s hard, unforgiving and his forehead pounds and there’s something wet under his nose and all over his upper lip somewhere _out there_ but he doesn’t give a fuck because he’s mentally _here_ , he’s settled comfortably on that beach he’s pulled from a memory, Chuck Hansen sitting beside him, still in his drive suit.

“What the hell are you doing?” Chuck demands, arms folded over his chest as he glares at his father.

_Christ, he looks solid_ , Herc thinks and Chuck snorts, rolls his eyes, because of course that’s some shit Herc would say.

“Dad, what the fuck?”

“I had to see you.” Herc thinks it’s obvious what he’s doing here, why he’s sitting on this beach from a long lost memory that honestly, he can barely remember anymore.

“You can’t do this forever. It’s gonna kill you.”

Silence.

“Yeah,” Herc says evenly, eventually.

“That the point?” Chuck wants to know.

“Maybe.”

“Idiot.” Chuck snorts, and looks out at the ocean.

“Always was.”

There’s more silence as father and son sit together in the Drift, staring out into the Pacific. The waters are deceptively calm; no waves crash in today, it’s just flat, smooth like glass, sparkling when the sunlight hits it, throwing a dazzling array of light around two shadowy figures sitting on the beach.

“They’re gonna make you stop,” Chuck says finally, breaking the silence with a gruff, surly tone that indicates the surliness that practically radiated from around him when he was alive. It makes Herc’s heart ache, break again and again, every time he does this he leaves feeling a little more hollow, a little more empty inside. One day he’s sure that he’s going to come into the Drift and he’s never going to come out.

“They’ve tried,” Herc confesses, picking at his board shorts with blunt, calloused fingers. _Blue shorts; Chuck tugs at them, ‘Dad, hey Daddy, can I get in the water? Mommy said you’d take me swimming—‘_  
  
“And you didn’t listen.” Chuck finishes, still not looking at him.

“Nah. When’ve I ever listened, mate?”

Chuck snorts again and shakes his head.

“Confusing yourself with me,” Chuck tells him, leaning back on his hands, the helmet falling carelessly to the sand.

“Oi, pick that up,” Herc says automatically, brow furrowing in annoyance. “You’ll get sand in it.”

Chuck starts laughing, because _what the fuck, Dad, what the actual fuck, it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, everything burns, everything hurts it’s white hot pain and anguish and screams and_ **my skin is melting** then—

Nothing.

He’s sitting alone on the beach, shirtless, in blue board shorts, with no company save for a drive helmet without its pilot.

* * *

It’s freezing outside and Mako tries to get Herc to put on a jacket when the go outside to meet the UN fat cats that call themselves 'peace keepers' that’ve come to survey the Shatterdome and how it’s being run. Despite Herc’s general withdrawal into his own mind and rumors otherwise, the place runs like a tightly wound clock and there’s nothing wrong with it that anyone can find.

Herc takes them on a tour, leads them around the ‘dome while Mako trails after, expression uncertain and grim.

It goes without incident, they leaves. Herc goes straight to his rooms because they won’t let him drift this week, something about abnormal brain scans. Things that didn’t matter, that he didn't _care about_ , because they're interfering with his communications with _his son_.

They don't understand. They don't get it. The only one that would probably understand more than anyone is Raleigh and Herc can't bring himself to talk to him.

The whole Shatterdome is cold this time of year, something about budgeting and the lack of funding meant that certain things went unattended to (like central heat) in favor of jaeger repair. Herc doesn’t feel it anyway though, and falls asleep on the bed after too many shots of bourbon, clad in just his boxers.

His vision swirls and he knows he’s dreaming – Drifting? He doesn’t know anymore that this is, just that his son is perpetually haunting him in his mind, self inflicted or otherwise – but he doesn’t put any effort into trying to wake up.

“Cold,” Chuck comments, leaning back in Herc’s desk chair as he props his boots up on the nice, mahogany desk gifted to his father by some well meaning general. “Turn the fuckin’ heat on in here, old man.”

“Don’t call me that,” Herc mutters and…fuck, is he dreaming? He doesn’t know, but he gets up and flips at the switch on the wall, raising the temperature a little bit. He’s one of the few that gets the luxury of a space heater and if Chuck says turn it on, it gets turned on.

“And get your goddamn boots off my desk.” He stumbles over to shove Chuck’s feet off. Chuck lets him, lips still pulled into a smirk, eyes watching his father wander listlessly around the room.

“Should wear a jacket.”

Herc shrugs.

“It’s not that bad.”

Chuck’s rolling his eyes and wadding up his old bomber jacket, the one Herc keeps wearing around because he can't bring himself to bury the past, and throws it in Herc’s general direction.

“You’re gonna kill your fuckin’ self. Put it on.”

Herc puts it on, and sits on the bed. Chuck stares at him, expression unreadable.

“Why’re you so goddamn self destructive?” Chuck demands and Herc opens his mouth to snarl back at him but Chuck shakes his head and snaps back before Herc can get a word out.

“No, you’re gonna listen to me. What is your deal? You think I died so that you could do this, chase a memory? I don’t _want this_ , I never wanted this, I--”

_Quite liked my life_.

Chuck takes a deep, shuddering breath and Herc looks at him, cheeks sunken, skin pale, dark circles under his eyes. 

“You look terrible,” he mutters, choking out the words and biting them off at the ends, like he’s afraid of getting _too_ emotional.

“Feel terrible,” Herc supplies dryly, though his eyes are wet and red-rimmed.

“That’s what happens when you shoulder a neural load by yourself over ‘n over. Y’can’t keep doing this, Dad. You’re gonna kill yourself. I didn’t die for this. Never for this.”

Herc swallows but the wrecked sob escapes anyway and his head hangs, hands clawing into his hair.

“Chuck, I can’t--I can’t let you go, I _won’t_.”

“You stubborn old ass.” 

His kids voice is raw but affectionate and if Herc didn’t know better, he’d say Chuck’s eyes were wet, too

“Take care of yourself.” Chuck snaps fondly, then vanishes.

Herc wakes up later wrapped up in that jacket, knowing damn well he hadn’t had it on when he passed out.

* * *

The Drift is fucked up this time. Herc knows it even before it initializes. Something is wrong with the tech, they say, but Herc knows better.

Chuck is literally taking over Gipsy and forcibly ejecting him.

If it wasn’t so goddamn infuriating, he would find it endearing - and _impossible_.

Herc forces the issue though, slams through Chuck’s defenses and finds himself in a clash between minds, an argument for the ages.

The last thing Herc hears is a scream, then everything goes black. 

The obnoxious sound of a two tone alarm is blaring in the background and Herc feels himself lifted out of the harness and laid on the floor of the conn pod and he’s powerless to stop it. His body won't stop seizing, the tremors wracking through him one after another, each one more violent than the last. 

Voices become audible as medics crash into the conn-pod, smearing together over top of him and the last thing he sees before blackness sweeps over his vision is Chuck standing over the frantically working doctors, shaking his head, jaw set. 

The next several hours are a blur. Herc couldn’t rightly tell you who it was that’d found him, who’d brought him to medical and strapped him down and forced an IV in his fucking vein, but that was probably because if he knew, he’d make sure they tasted his knuckles for years to come.

He’d been a sobbing mess, broken and shattered and hysterical when two poor souls brave enough to enter had taken him down to the medical bay, half carrying, half dragging Herc’s inert form along with them. He’s pretty sure he’d been sedated at some point; when he awoke several hours later he was groggy and the lights were too bright, the noises too loud and his mouth tasted funny, like it’d been stuffed with cotton, all the saliva soaked up, leaving his tongue dried out and brittle.

He’s still laying in that shitty bed with fucking straps around his wrists holding him down, livid, when the doctor comes in and tries to tell him he can’t Drift. The crackpot old crock of shit tries to tell Herc that he’s got fucking _issues_ , as if he didn’t know that, as if he didn’t know that the second Striker detonated _he’d felt it_. Herc isn’t fucking stupid enough to actually confess that, to tell people that he’d actually felt Chuck die down there and there’d been a black hole in his fucking soul.

Maybe they hadn’t been in the Drift, but every single pilot that’s ever gotten into a jaeger could whisper stories about ghost drifting.

He’s not crazy, he’s _not_ \- and it’s hard to ignore a dark spot that actually _showed up_ on x-rays, not dissimilar to how there was a goddamn hole in Raleigh Becket’s head. The doctor’s puzzle over it and throw around words like ‘tumor’ and ‘cancer’ and ‘aneurysm’ but Herc laughs and laughs and laughs, shakes his head because even after all this time, people are clueless, people don’t get it – they don’t understand what this technology does to people, to the pilots that use it - to the pilots that _can’t stop_ using it.

Herc’s told that if he keeps up, if he goes back in that pod alone it’s gonna slowly kill him like it was killing Pentecost when he went down there in Striker, all the way to the bottom of the ocean, Herc’s only goddamn son in tow. Herc barely listens, because he doesn’t give a damn and there’s no one that can stop him. He’s the Marshal, he’s running this joint and goddammit Herc has never abused his power a day in his life but if he has to, if they force his hand, he is not fucking above using every ounce of authority he has to get himself back in the pod, where he can see Chuck again.

Chuck, who hasn’t shown his face since the conn-pod.


End file.
